


A Thousand Sweet Kisses

by Dracoduceus



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Denial of Feelings, Enemies to Lovers, First Kiss, Genji being a little shit in the background, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, but that's what they think, communication (and lack thereof) of sexuality, friends with benefits but they're not friends, many kinds of first kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 21:57:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17149811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dracoduceus/pseuds/Dracoduceus
Summary: First kisses can come in many different forms.--They had kissed a thousand times before but it had never been like this. It had beendon’t leave me alone kissesorI’m drunk kisses;I’m bored kissesandlet’s kill time kissesandI’m too deep in my head and I need someone to fix that kissesorI need someone, anyone kisses. This was different.This was anI missed youandI was afraid that you’d never wake upandthank goodness you’re safe kiss.





	A Thousand Sweet Kisses

**Author's Note:**

> My Secret Santa gift for [Strigasv](https://classywastelandbread.tumblr.com/).
> 
> I hope you like it!

At first, they had gotten on like oil and water. Their personalities were too similar and they were both too proud. It could be said that perhaps McCree was still holding a grudge against Hanzo for what had been done over decade previous, or perhaps he simply didn’t trust anyone that could do that to another person.

Never mind that in the past he had done worse.

No one had been certain why they disliked each other. Perhaps they knew each other, or knew  _ of _ each other. Perhaps they simply didn’t like each other.

But no matter what was said of their personal opinions, they worked well together in the field. They were both professionals after all.

Then one day—and no one was sure exactly when or how—they…stopped. The baleful glares, leaving the room when the other entered, the circling like unfamiliar cats, all of it. It all stopped.

The cause was revealed one day when Hana was wandering the halls late at night (or early in the morning, depending on your point of view) and found the two of them, arms around each other, stumbling drunkenly down the hallway. She had helped them to their rooms, watched as they mumbled at each other in a jumble of languages that they somehow could both speak and understand.

That or they just played along with it. Hana couldn’t be sure.

The team teased them.  _ Alcohol brings people closer _ . And McCree had never made it a secret—at least not in this iteration of Overwatch—of his sexuality. He’d certainly returned from leave, missions, or nights in the nearby towns with enough lipstick marks and hickeys and clothes reeking of sex and cologne and perfume to put that to rest.

On the other hand, Genji insisted to the members participating in the betting pool that Hanzo was straight.  _ Straight as an arrow flies, pun intended _ , had been his words. It had been hilarious coincidence that in group training the next day, Hanzo showed off some of his trick shots, including “bending” his arrow around a corner.

So rumor persisted and neither Hanzo nor McCree argued too fiercely over the open speculation. “Just friends, if that,” they would always say, and that was that…

…until it wasn’t.

* * *

The first time they kissed, they were both drunk.

They were drinking in Hanzo’s room and Hanzo had gotten up to fetch another bottle. He had found a bottle of rum on one of his missions and bought it because it looked like it  [ might be tasty ](https://koloarum.com/rums/) . After sipping their pours, it was decided that despite the low price it was something best saved for a special occasion and Hanzo moved to put it away and pull out their usual.

He could see McCree in the mirror openly staring at his ass. Despite being pleasantly tipsy it was far from impairing his judgment and he considered McCree whose eyes lifted and met his in the mirror.

It was hard to name the expression on McCree’s face; some days he seemed to have all the emotional range of a baked potato. (Not that Hanzo was one to talk. Genji insisted that he was much worse.) Hanzo considered McCree who smirked back at him, utterly unrepentant.

The thought of being with McCree was almost laughable and yet…well, he had eyes and had no problem admitting, even to himself, that McCree was unfairly attractive.

So he let McCree go back to ogling his ass, arching his back more than necessary as he reached for the bottle. A plan was forming—a very amusing plan—and Hanzo was certain that even if it backfired, it would at least cause them both to laugh.

He spun, only wobbling a little as the rum worked its magic on his coordination. “Whiskey?” he asked, shaking the bottle.

McCree clicked his tongue. “Ain’t one to say ‘no’,” he said. “But damn that one tastes like turpentine.”

“We need to balance it out,” Hanzo countered. “We had something nice, now we have to have something terrible.”

Throwing his head back, McCree laughed and Hanzo watched the brown curve of his throat, the way it moved, and wondered what it might taste like beneath his lips. Sweat and skin certainly, but would he taste the ash and smoke that always seemed to be clinging to McCree?

Hanzo walked to McCree, watching his head tip back to meet Hanzo’s eyes as he walked. “I thought you liked a bit of ‘bite’, did you not?”

He watched, pleased, as McCree’s eyes darkened and his pupils dilated. “Something like that,” McCree said, wiggling his empty glass. Hanzo wiggled out the cork, wrinkled his nose at the burning smell of the alcohol, and poured them each a few fingers.

McCree waited for Hanzo to put the cork back in and put the bottle on the nightstand before holding out his glass for Hanzo to tap with his. “Bottoms up,” he said with a lopsided smirk.

The liquor burned even to one that was used to it and Hanzo hissed out a breath. He licked his lips and put his glass down.

“Whew,” McCree said, shaking his head and breathing out hard. “Damn that shit burns. Almost need a chaser for that.”

Hanzo took two steps into McCree’s space, the liquor burning like fire in his belly. He crooked a finger under McCree’s chin and tugged him up as Hanzo leaned down, slotting his lips against McCree’s. The kiss was far from chaste, full of tongue and teeth and the burn of truly terrible whiskey. Hanzo’s calloused hand slid along McCree’s bristled jaw, tugging him closer by the back of his neck.

They were both breathing hard when they parted, their lips shiny with sweat and stolen from harsh bites. “How is that as a chaser?” he asked roughly.

McCree grinned. “Could use another taste.” He fell back on the bed, pulling Hanzo with him. 

* * *

It progressed from there.

They were still almost-friends. They still drank together.

They sometimes also had sex.

It was a mutually beneficial relationship. Whenever the violence or fire or adrenaline or the ghosts of the past got a hold of them, all they had to do was knock on a door. There was no wandering the streets, no hanging around the bars, no risk that one of their marks was another assassin or bounty hunter out for their head.

And so things went. They were very aware of where they stood—a hazy grey kind of place between friend and friends with benefits. “‘With Benefits’,” McCree had quipped once. “Since we’re not friends.”

The team continued to place bets and make not-so-subtle hints or guesses on their relationship. Genji continued to insist that his brother was straight and Hanzo continued to not correct him.

(McCree had asked once and Hanzo had given him a perfectly honest answer. He had added that no one else had asked him, had ever asked him, so it was a novel experience for him to discuss this. There was always an  _ expectation _ or an  _ assumption _ , never a dialogue.)

New members joined and housing became a problem. In the infant stages of the Recall, there had been enough one-person suites in habitable condition to go around but as more people joined, things became more complicated. Shared suites became a necessity and those not on active duty were put to work cleaning out more rooms and the barracks rooms in a half-hearted attempt at creating more apartments or temporary housing.

But there were personality issues. Genji and Zenyatta were fine with sleeping in a barracks and giving up their separate rooms and while Sergeant Zaryanova was also used to military barracks, she had no desire to bunk with Omnics and had not wanted to be anywhere near them, which caused tension between her and Lena. McCree, to everyone’s surprise, did not get along with Lynx-17 so they couldn’t be put together. Hanzo and Genji refused to share a room and Hanzo didn’t always get along with Zenyatta—not out of jealousy as everyone had thought, but because of their two very different personalities. 

(Privately, sweaty and aching and tangled with McCree, Hanzo admitted that he’s afraid that he would wake up one day and find that he had somehow killed Genji in his sleep. Ridiculous, but he still hadn’t quite recovered from finding out that his brother was alive, much less gotten over the fact that it had been by his hand that he had lost Genji in the first place. McCree could relate.)

Winston slept in his lab, the only place sufficient to support his weight and bulk, and Hammond didn’t need his own room. No one wanted to bunk with the Junkers and the opposite was true, that the Junkers wanted little to do with anyone but themselves and…Hammond.

No one wanted to bunk with Hana but only because all of her streaming gear was in her room and it was intolerable to sleep there. (Most of the time she slept on couches or cuddled up with her “favorites”. It was too empty in her bunk, alone, and most didn’t have the heart to turn her away. They didn’t much care, either way.)

In short, rooming was a new problem that no one wanted to deal with. Winston eventually grew frustrated with the complaints sent to him when he tried to propose a fix and demanded that they settle this themselves.

Everyone was surprised (and somehow not) when McCree and Hanzo traded glances and announced that they would bunk together in a two-person suite.

“Are you  _ sure _ you’re not dating?” Hana asked suspiciously a few days after they had moved in together. She had just returned, bruised and exhausted, from a mission and heard the news.

McCree shrugged; Hanzo ignored her as he made her a plate of food. Hana dropped the topic in favor of shoving the  _ tonkatsu _ on her plate in her mouth.

Hanzo jumped when McCree’s hand brushed against his lower back. It slid up his spine, cupped his scapula for a split second, the touch light enough that he thought that he had imagined it for a moment, before the hand dropped. “What are the odds that I can get some of that?”

Swallowing his surprise and a strange lump that rose in his throat (his heart? It certainly felt like it was rising in his chest) Hanzo looked over his shoulder at McCree. “Some of my…”

“Don’t say it,” McCree complained but he was smiling, his eyes crinkling as he bit back his laughter.

Hanzo winked. “Some of my meat?”

“Salty meat!” Hana exclaimed from the table. She didn’t turn around to look at them, perhaps wisely for McCree’s hand had returned, this time pressed against the front of Hanzo’s belly, traveling lower, lower. Hanzo’s knees trembled embarrassingly when McCree’s hand cupped the front of his pants and his chapped lips pressed against his neck, mouthing at the skin there.

Then McCree was gone, across the kitchen, getting a plate from one of the cupboards. They traded heated glances, Hanzo’s holding a promise of retribution. McCree grinned and held up a plate. “Well?”

Dinner wasn’t so terrible of a thing. A few other operatives joined, Genji of course being late and complaining that he had missed  _ tonkatsu _ and that a  _ good _ brother would have saved some for him. McCree replied in Japanese that somehow sounded just as lazy as his English that perhaps Hanzo is just  _ bad _ .

Genji complained the entire time as he made himself dinner: an almost-instant ramen that Hana had brought back from her mission that had fresh noodles but a packet of broth paste. There was more than enough toppings and he topped his bowl with a truly impressive amount of food.

Though Hanzo was in a rush to leave and get his revenge on McCree in the privacy of their room he found that it was…nice. Sitting close to McCree, squished closer by Roadhog and Reinhardt so that they were pressed together from shoulder to hip to knee, listening to the talk and jokes of their team around them. Ana sent Hana off to bed, wrapping her leftovers and labelling it.

The Genji of the past would have eaten it anyway but aside from a mocking attempt to steal it, this version of Genji didn’t and claimed that his tower of bean sprouts was far superior to anything his brother made.

All of them cleaned up and Hanzo found himself brushing his fingers against McCree’s as he passed him damp dishes to dry. The glances that McCree gave him were still heated, the smirks still dangerous in the way it made desire pool low in Hanzo’s belly. But McCree gave him other looks too, happy things that reminded him of a happy canine—it was the kind of looks that Hanzo was accustomed to seeing on a dog riding with its face out the window, the kind that they threw at their owner over their shoulder as if to say,  _ see, isn’t this fun? _

It was…endearing.

It was very endearing and Hanzo felt his heart sink into his toes. He smiled when McCree asked him if he was alright.

He had a thousand things he could say. A joke. Something biting. He could brush it off.

Instead he told the truth but only because he had been otherwise paralyzed by his ambivalence. “Never better.”

McCree’s smile was blinding and Hanzo realized just how gone he was.

“What’s wrong?” McCree asked later that night as they fell into bed together. He pressed a kiss, hot and wet and open-mouthed to Hanzo’s throat. Hanzo could feel the smirk against his skin when he groaned.

“Nothing,” Hanzo breathed. 

He moaned when he felt McCree chuckle against his skin. “Liar.” 

Hanzo sighed when McCree pulled him into his lap, both hands kneading his ass while Hanzo’s tangled in McCree’s hair, knocking off his hat. For a moment he closed his eyes and let himself believe that McCree was whispering sweet nothings into his skin, that it was for more than just sex that he encouraged Hanzo to rock his hips. 

Growling, Hanzo let himself get lost in that fantasy and dug his fingers into McCree’s scalp, tugging his head back to bare his neck. He sucked a dark mark there, sucking and nipping while McCree groaned from somewhere deep in his chest. 

“Hanzo,” he breathed. 

Leaning back, Hanzo surveyed his work. There was a lurid purple mark on McCree’s throat, beneath the curve of his jaw. It could almost be brushed off as a shadow cast by his chin or his beard but Hanzo knew better. 

Licking his lips, Hanzo let his eyes drift to McCree’s and found them dark with need and a wild kind of hunger. “Forgive me,” Hanzo breathed. He wanted to blame the alcohol but neither of them drank that evening. Still, he couldn’t help the primal feeling that rose deep in his gut at seeing his mark so blatantly on McCree’s skin. 

They hadn’t done this before. Not like this. 

Hanzo shivered, the dark mark drawing his eyes like a lodestone.  _ Mine,  _ the mark seemed to declare.  _ He is mine _ . 

Lifting a hand, Hanzo thumbed the dark mark, pressing down on the growing bruise and McCree’s throat. He looked up at McCree and found that his mouth had fallen open, his eyes still dark and his face flushed as he watched Hanzo. 

“Another,” McCree rasped and Hanzo leaned down, nearly knocking his head into McCree’s chin, and chose a spot on the other side of his neck to kiss and lick and bite. Beneath him he could feel McCree gasping, hips bucking. 

McCree’s hands dug bruises into his ass, urging him to rock down so that their cocks ground against each other. Hanzo groaned at the friction, his lips parting from McCree’s neck with a wet sound. 

He grunted when McCree rolled them so that he lay over Hanzo. They gasped as they rutted against each other, one of McCree’s hands tangled in Hanzo’s messy hair. McCree pulled away with a low groan. 

“Let me...let me mark you too? Fuck.” He shuddered, his hips jerking against Hanzo’s. 

Hanzo gasped, arching his neck. “Please.” 

There were no words to describe the breathless sound he made when McCree’s teeth caught on his collarbone, digging hard enough to make a mark but not draw blood. Then he sucked, lips and tongue working against Hanzo’s skin. 

Feeling weaker than he had ever remembered feeling, Hanzo pushed at McCree’s shoulders. “Off,” he hissed. “Clothes. Off.” 

McCree pulled back and nearly ripped his shirt off, his eyes hooded with desire as Hanzo did the same. Shimmying his pants off wasn’t as sexy as it was typically portrayed but McCree didn’t seem to mind, grasping the hems of Hanzo’s pants and drawing them off. McCree pawed at Hanzo’s ass, still clothed from the waist down and no longer caring now that Hanzo had bared so much skin.

With Hanzo’s arms caught in the cuffs of his shirt, McCree leaned down and sucked a pierced nipple into his mouth, grinning when Hanzo gasped and shuddered, his frantic motions slowing. McCree dug his fingertips into Hanzo’s ass, and Hanzo whined at the thought that McCree was marking him there, too. 

But his thoughts were elsewhere, stuck on the friction of his cock as McCree urged him to buck his hips against McCree’s thigh, as McCree mouthed at the piercing in his nipple. 

It always surprised him how sensitive they were.  

Hanzo freed his arms and buried them in McCree’s hair. He yanked McCree’s head back and gave a wild grin that was more of a snarl. “Lube,” he hissed. 

Eyes dark with lust and something that Hanzo couldn’t put a name to, McCree nodded. “Yeah,” he croaked. 

“Fuck me.”

McCree nodded again. “Yeah,” he said and flipped Hanzo. “In a moment.” Before Hanzo could protest, McCree had pulled the elastic of Hanzo’s underwear down and gave him something else to think about. 

* * *

Hanzo rolled over and found a piece of paper.

_ Early mission.  
_ _ Be back soon. _

_ XOXO  
_ _ J.M. _

Slowly he sat up, feeling the best kind of aches in his body and sighed. Exactly what he hadn’t wanted: time to think. He groaned and forced himself out of bed, stretching his arms above his head with his back arched. It sent pleasant twinges of pain along his back and belly and in the softer skin of his groin. 

Hanzo smiled and walked into the bathroom. A hot bath would be in order, or perhaps just a shower. He had no patience for baths at the moment. 

Waiting for the water to warm up, Hanzo stared at himself in the mirror, running his calloused fingers over the marks sucked and bit into his neck and chest. Some of them he couldn’t remember getting, only that he had been so viscerally pleased to have McCree’s mouth on him.

There were more marks running up and down his body and he remembered most of the marks he had left on McCree’s in return. Scratches down his back. Bruises on his chest. Bite marks on his neck.

Hanzo smiled to himself as he stepped toward the shower. Beard burn.

The smile fell as he stepped into the stream of hot water with a sigh. “You fool,” he whispered to himself, too soft to be heard over the hiss of the water.

How had it come down to this? Pining like a lovesick fool? Grinning to himself at a primal show of ownership, as if McCree had any power over him?

_ But he did _ , a traitorous part of him whispered.  _ He can influence your actions by a single look and convince you with a smile. A wink can melt your discipline into nothing. _

Many had sought such power over him. The power of the Shimada dragons was a strong pull, as was his skills as an assassin. The Shimada Clan, what was left of them, still sought to get the traitor back, to gloat and get some hollow satisfaction before they annihilate him.

And yet somehow, despite his best efforts and paranoia, one Jesse McCree snuck through everything, had wiggled through the cracks in his armor. Like a parasite had buried himself deep ( _ in more ways than one _ , the lewd part of Hanzo whispered) and set down roots so that separating Hanzo from Hanzo-with-McCree was almost impossible.

The thought rattled him to the core. How? How could this happen?

When had ‘with benefits’ turned into…he didn’t dare put a name of it, not even in the depths of his own mind. To do so would make it real.

Worse, he couldn’t find the start of the knot, the beginning of the confusing tangle of emotions. He could distinctly remember  _ not _ liking McCree, his gregarious nature, his irreverent attitude, the constant smell of his cigarillos and of the soap he used.

Since they shared a two-person suite Hanzo had learned that McCree seemed to choose soaps at random so that one month he might smell like vanilla and another he might smell like lavender or sandalwood. His shampoos were the same but rarely matched up with the soaps so he often smelled like a confusing jumble of conflicting scents.

Hanzo squeeze his eyes shut and moved his face into the spray of water as if hoping that the water would sluice away the conflicting thoughts of the intimate knowledge he had of McCree. He  _ used to _ hate him, but how did things change?

How did it come to this, where Hanzo acted like he was in...

Not wanting to even finish the thought, Hanzo turned the hot water off and gasped at the chill as the cold water continued to thunder down on him. It had the intended effect though and chased away the thoughts of whiskey kisses and wandering hands and the feeling of legs tangled with his and arms around his waist and the peculiar tickle of chest hair against his face when he buried his face in McCree’s bare chest.

Angry at himself, angry that these thoughts continued to persist, Hanzo scrubbed his skin until it was red and left. When he buried his face in his towel, he could still smell McCree, could smell the laundry detergent they shared as roommates. He dried off quickly and got dressed, surveying their room.

What had once been a two-person suite with two separate rooms and a shared living space had somehow become smaller. Neither Hanzo nor McCree had a lot of clutter, could not carry that much with them on their escapades while on the run, so the one room they shared seemed lived in and not crowded. They split the small walk-in closet between them and the two small clothes chests pressed against the wall beside it.

Their second room had been converted to a gear room. It let Hanzo fletch his arrows and work on the circuitry and mechanisms that allowed him to work, gave McCree a space to spread out when he cleaned his beloved Peacekeeper, and gave them space to store their extra gear and ammunition for combat.

Hanzo swallowed the lump in his throat.  _ How had this happened? _ He asked himself.

He remembered hating McCree and now he pined after him. They entirely skipped the “friend” stage and went straight to lovers.

Or had they? Hanzo racked his brain. How many nights had they stayed up late together without alcohol, leaning against each other on the couch like a shield against the ghosts of the past? How many times had they fallen asleep together, too tired to shuffle to their proper beds, barely aware enough to tangle their legs and arms together so that they wouldn’t fall off the bed?

How long had it been that they had simply decided to shove the two beds together into one, to give them enough room to spread out and to make it easier when they wanted to be close?

At the time there had to have been good reasons for it but Hanzo couldn’t remember them. Had they given any? Or had they just moved it and said nothing about it? Hanzo sat heavily at the edge of the bed, naked save for the towel wrapped around his waist and stared at his clasped hands as he thought.

* * *

It must have been hours, or perhaps only a few minutes before Hanzo shook himself from his funk. His back ached because of bad choices in leaning over as he had been and he sighed, stretching his arms over his head and leaning back on their shared bed. He grunted when his back and shoulders cracked and wondered if he was getting old.

Clearly not old enough to be acting like a lovesick fool, though.

Hearing his comm ring, he sighed and forced himself into an upright position. As much as he wanted to ignore it and wallow in his self-pity, it was an urgent alarm that indicated that there was something seriously wrong.

_ AGENT TAKEN.  
_ _ Agent McCree— _

Hanzo leaped to his feet.

* * *

McCree was so still.

He looked so small against the crisp white blankets in Medical.

His skin was so pale with blood loss, the skin beneath his eyes dark as soot.

Hanzo sat at his side in the uncomfortable medical chair, watching his face, timing his breaths to be as even as McCree’s. Oh, if he had thought that the ache in his chest was bad before, it was worse now.

Now, he wondered. Now he thought more of the things he’d never said and the what-ifs. He thought about a hazy “them” and wondered if he would ever achieve it. Now wasn’t a time to think of deserving things, it was a time to think of what might have been.

And what might be lost if…

...if…

Even in his darkest thoughts he couldn’t form the words.

McCree was so still on the coarse hospital blankets. Hanzo took a deep, shaky breath, biting back tears. He reached out and touched McCree’s hand, careful of the many needles and hoses there but needing to feel even the gentlest brush of his dry fingertips rasping against Hanzo’s own.

What if McCree didn’t wake up? What if Hanzo would never feel his whiskery kisses or his heartbeat as they went to sleep? What if he didn’t feel the easy slide and rasp of their hands tangling or the rough, dented, scratched surface of his prosthetic hand?

What if Hanzo didn’t feel the bump of his shoulder as they sat next to each other or heard the hiss of his breath in the darkness of their shared room as they slept? What if he never saw the warmth of McCree’s smile? Never heard the absolutely  _ terrible _ jokes he only told in drunken Spanish?

Hanzo took another shaky breath and realized that McCree’s had changed from the steady breaths of slumber to something shallower as he began to wake up. Hanzo sat up quickly, nearly dizzy with a heady sense of hope.

After what felt like a thousand years McCree’s eyes fluttered open and he blinked up at the dimmed lights of his room. Hanzo must have made a sound because they flicked to Hanzo and McCree’s face lit up.

His skin was still sallow and his eyes still seemed sunken but there was life in it again, was no longer blank in unconsciousness.

Hanzo gasped something, he didn’t know what—perhaps McCree’s name, perhaps a breathless prayer of thanks—and lunged forward, hovering over McCree’s battered and injured face. He grasped both cheeks firmly between his palms, stared for a moment into McCree’s warm brown eyes, before leaning in for a kiss.

They had kissed a thousand times before but it had never been like this. It had been  _ don’t leave me alone _ kisses or  _ I’m drunk _ kisses;  _ I’m bored _ kisses and  _ let’s kill time _ kisses and  _ I’m too deep in my head and I need someone to fix that  _ kisses or  _ I need someone, anyone _ kisses. This was different.

This was an  _ I missed you _ and  _ I was afraid that you’d never wake up _ and  _ thank goodness you’re safe _ kiss.

McCree kissed back, his arms flopping helplessly at his sides—one arm tethered by tubes and needles and bandages, the other rendered incapable of pulling Hanzo closer simply because his prosthetic arm had been disconnected. He grunted when Hanzo tried to deepen the kiss, when he pushed too hard, and horrified Hanzo leaped back.

They both stared at each other, McCree’s eyes heavy with drugs and painkillers and the biotics still running through his system, Hanzo with relief and that heady sense of  _ rightness _ he had when he kissed McCree again.

But McCree’s eyes were wide, his mouth held open in shock as he stared at Hanzo. “What was _ that _ for?” he asked in a sleep-rough voice and Hanzo’s heart sank.

“Forgive me,” Hanzo breathed around the lump in his throat.

McCree blinked at him, his pupils dilated from the drugs in his system. “C’mere,” he mumbled and patted at the bed next to his hip. “’S not right without you here.”

“I should go,” Hanzo demurred. “I already snuck in to see you.”

It was unnerving to see McCree so slow. He blinked and then a slow smile spread across his face. “Aww,” he said, his eyelids already growing visibly heavier. “For little ol’ me?” he patted the bed again. “Please, Han?” he asked. “Ain’t right sleepin’ without you. Just ain’t the same.”

He’d just sneak out after McCree fell asleep, Hanzo told himself as he sat down on the bed and gently eased himself next to McCree, who tugged him closer.

McCree smelled like antiseptic and bandages and the stale air of Medical, not even like his usual overwhelming smell from his mismatched shampoo and soap. He smelled like old sweat and blood and even the hint of gunpowder from Peacekeeper.

_ Just for a moment _ , Hanzo thought to himself and let his eyes slide shut. McCree hummed, the sound echoing through his chest.

Hanzo heard McCree’s heartbeat, strong and steady, and smiled to himself. Soon he was fast asleep.

* * *

When Hanzo opened his eyes again, sunlight was streaming in through the nearby window. Dr. Ziegler was there, looking amused as she checked in on McCree.

Who was also awake.

And smiling down at Hanzo.

“Aw, Ange,” he complained and though he was still pale he looked so much better. His pupils were still wide but he seemed so much more in control of himself. “Why’d you have to go and wake him up?”

Dr. Ziegler rolled her eyes. “I’ll check in on you later,” she said, not shooing Hanzo out like he expected her to. “Let me take out your IVs, you should be fine without it now.” She flapped her hand at Hanzo, taking McCree’s hand over his shoulder and removing the needles as she said she would, putting on a small pink D.Va printed bandage. As soon as she released his hand, McCree used it to hug Hanzo’s shoulder. “Don’t over exert yourselves,” she called over her shoulder as she left. Hanzo blushed.

When the door closed behind her, McCree chuckled and squeezed Hanzo’s shoulder again. “Was right nice to wake up to you again,” he said softly. “Was almost afraid that I wouldn’t. No wonder I got such good rest.” He chuckled nervously, his fingers drumming on Hanzo’s arm. “Did’ja have a bad night?”

Hanzo swallowed. “No,” he admitted. “I slept well.” He cleared his throat and fought to sit up.

“Oh,” McCree said, his brow knitting. “Why…are you here, then?”

“I…” he what?  _ I was afraid? _ Afraid of what? Dr. Ziegler said that McCree wasn’t too seriously injured. He’d be on medical leave for a month or more but there was no doubt that he’d pull through, and Hanzo trusted her word.

She didn’t give it lightly.

_ I love you _ . No, those words were never to be uttered.  _ I love you and I was scared that I’d never be able to see you again _ .

That was just the definition of compromised. How could Hanzo bear to be on a team with McCree without giving up the team in favor of McCree?

“Y’know…” McCree looked embarrassed. “I was…well, I was surprised to see you here and not. Like…I had this dream last night…” he trailed off, biting his lip. “I woke up and you were here. And—”

Hanzo moved, lifting himself up on his forearms to gently slot their mouths together. Like the kiss the night before it was softer, gentler. It was what he wanted to say without words,  _ I love you and I was scared that I’d never be able to tell you _ ,  _ I’m so glad you’re alive, I’m so glad you’re still here with me _ .

McCree made a wounded sound and uncomfortably aware that Hanzo had once more done this, had once more showed his heart to this insufferable man who had somehow wiggled his way deep into Hanzo’s very being, he pulled back. 

It took a few deep breaths for McCree to open his eyes. Hanzo didn’t dare to hope that there was something else there, staring back at him. “It wasn’t a dream, was it?” McCree breathed. “You really were here. With me.” 

Hanzo licked his lips, mouth suddenly dry. “Yes,” he said. “I was.” 

He could see McCree still fighting the drugs that made his head feel like it was stuffed with cotton. “Not for sex.” 

“No.” 

McCree watched him. “Why?” 

For a long moment Hanzo didn’t know how to answer, didn’t know what to say. He licked his lips again, burying his face in McCree’s thin hospital gown. McCree smelled foul, only having received a cursory cleaning from his injuries and almost an entire day of sweat and battlefield grime made his smell quite pungent. The antiseptics used made it smell worse, and Hanzo made a face against McCree’s chest. 

“Can’t imagine I smell nice,” McCree said as if he could read Hanzo’s mind. He cleared his throat. “See, this is what I’m thinking, and...maybe I’m wrong. Fuck, I hope I’m not.” 

They fell into silence again as if McCree hadn’t even spoken. Hanzo thought that even a body that smelled like stale sweat was better than a dead one.

That was a terrible thought. 

Hanzo had a lot of terrible thoughts. The ones that currently occupied the space was that he was about to lose McCree in a way that was worse than if he had died. 

Then McCree sighed. “Hanzo,” he said softly. “No, that’s not right.” he sighed. “I thought about this. Rehearsed this whole conversation in my head a hundred times but now that I can have this with you, now that it’s unavoidable, I can’t remember a single word of it.” 

Lips curling, Hanzo buried his face deeper into McCree’s side. How fitting that his last close memory of his time with McCree would be curled up with him in Medical, breathing in the smell of stale, unwashed man like it was the last thing that he would ever smell. 

Perhaps it was. 

Perhaps Hanzo would go back and find that McCree had arranged for his stuff to be moved out of their shared suite. He closed his eyes in shame at his presumption that he could have such a thing without ruining it. 

“Fuck,” McCree breathed. “This is hard. ‘Cause you? Fuck, you’re one of the best things to have happened to me and….and I don’t want to lose this--I don’t want to lose  _ you _ .” He took a deep breath and sighed, his sides heaving beneath Hanzo’s cheek. “I’d been wondering how to tell you this for so long but I’d convinced myself that I could be happy with what I’ve got. Fuck, please don’t let me be wrong.” 

The words registered in Hanzo’s mind, somehow broke through the depressive spiral he had wound himself into. He looked up at McCree, baffled through his shame. 

McCree was looking down at him, tilting his head awkwardly so that he could see Hanzo. “When we first started...whatever it is we have, were were not even friends, just means to an end.”  McCree licked his lips and Hanzo wanted nothing more than to lean in and kiss them but he didn’t.

This wasn’t them—they weren’t even  _ friends _ much less even… _ that _ .

“We weren’t friends,” McCree said in an eerie echo of Hanzo’s thoughts. “I’m…not even sure we even are now. But,” here he cleared his throat, “we’re a bit closer than that, don’cha think? Least by now. And I’ve come to…fuck, Hanzo I like you. I like you a lot.” He trailed off, unsure.

It was the most unsure that Hanzo had ever seen him. McCree did everything in that confident swagger and that carefree smirk. There was something there that Hanzo didn’t dare put a name to for fear of giving himself hope.

But perhaps that’s just what he needed. Like a heady rush of adrenaline he took a deep breath and sat up, hovering on his arms over McCree’s prone body. He stared into McCree’s eyes, eyes he’d seen a thousand times before in a thousand emotions. Now they seemed almost afraid, almost hopeful, and soft in a way that Hanzo had never let himself consider.

“I think,” he said very slowly, choosing each word with care. “That I may…be falling in love with you.”

McCree’s eyes fluttered and his face broke in a lopsided smile. “Oh good,” he breathed in a rush. “I was afraid that I was the only one.”

Very slowly, a part of him still afraid that McCree would reject him, would run away, Hanzo leaned in and slotted his lips against McCree’s. This kiss was soft, was  _ oh God I think I love you and I’m so glad that you might love me back _ and  _ I don’t want to think of this now I just want to savor this moment _ . It was perhaps the gentlest kiss they had ever shared, their lips moving slow and soft against each other’s.

It was the kind of kiss that everyone talked about, that all of those terrible romance novels said happened during your first kiss. Fireworks and slow burns and a terrifying sense of Rightness. 

“Fuck,” McCree breathed when they parted. Hanzo didn’t go far, pressing his forehead to McCree’s and letting their noses brush. “I think I can get used to that. I like the idea of waking up to this.” He lifted his hand and cupped Hanzo’s cheek, rubbed a thumb against the soft skin under Hanzo’s eye. Then McCree smiled and Hanzo felt his stomach do somersaults like the very first seconds of freefall.

He decided that he very much liked that idea, too. He liked the sound of it, liked the feeling of the words in his mouth finally being released. Words he had hung on, bit back.

Why had he been so scared?

Hanzo sighed, letting his eyes close. He leaned in again so that his lips brushed McCree’s when he said. “I love you.”

McCree made an almost wounded sound. “I love you too.” They slotted their lips together in another gentle kiss that was as soft as a sigh.

From the window, Genji shrieked. “ _ What? _ ”

They sprang apart, McCree hissing as the motion jostled his injuries and Hanzo drawing the knife he always hid on his person. Through the window they could hear the sounds of the rest of their team yelling up questions.  _ What do you see? What happened? What’s wrong? Are you okay? _

That was fine. Hanzo wanted nothing more than to flaunt his love for McCree, cry it from every window for everyone to hear. The teasing that they had finally gotten their heads out of their asses would be worth it.

“ _ What the hell? _ ” Genji demanded. 

Except that Genji was a little shit.

Hanzo stood and walked to the window.

Below, Hanzo could hear Dr. Ziegler say, “Genji, I told you that you weren’t allowed to visit.” So that explained the window.

Genji slipped and clung to the windowsill, the most off-kilter that Hanzo had ever seen him. It was impossible to see his expression through his mask and visor which was a shame. Regardless, Hanzo would certainly savor this. Genji lifted a hand and jabbed an accusatory finger at Hanzo. “You have a lot of explaining to do.”

“When two men love each other very much…” McCree said from behind Hanzo.

“My sexuality is none of your business,” Hanzo told Genji, feeling strangely amused by all of this. Perhaps it was a kind of shock or the debilitating kind of illness one came down with when they were in love.

Genji seemed surprised by this and slipped a little on the windowsill. Even the textured pads of his finger sand palms, meant to give him a better grip, were beginning to slip—the weight of Genji’s body was simply too much. “Help me,” he demanded.

Feeling oddly smug, Hanzo crossed his arms over his chest.

His brother seemed to sense this. “Brother. Hanzo.”

Hanzo turned to McCree who had pushed himself up in a sitting position. He gave Hanzo a thumbs-down, his face red from holding back laughter.

Both brothers turned to look back at each other. “Brother,” Genji said as Hanzo took the last few steps to reach Genji.

Hanzo gripped Genji’s wrists in both hands, grunting when he took on Genji’s entire weight. A large amount of him was still flesh and blood and his cybernetics were heavy as well. As much as they were able to, the builders and mechanics that created his body had used lightweight materials but he was still  _ hefty _ and Hanzo told him so.

He lifted Genji higher and looked into the green visor that covered Genji’s eyes, remembering in a split second an old children’s cartoon movie. “Brother,” he said with a nod. Genji’s begging eyes were not as effective when they were hidden behind a visor.

Hanzo opened his hands and watched Genji drop. He landed on his feet, of course. Hanzo was  _ almost _ sorry but there were more pressing matters to attend to.

After closing and locking the door, Hanzo returned to McCree’s Medical cot and curled up against his love.

But only for a moment. He sat up. “You really do smell terrible.”

“Think Ange would let me take a shower?” McCree waggled his eyebrows to show that he wasn’t  _ really _ talking about getting clean.

Hanzo smiled and leaned in for a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> I told myself to write something other than McHanzo and yet...this still happened. 
> 
> Regardless, Mele Kalikimaka! 
> 
> You can find me on twitter at [Dracoduceus](https://twitter.com/dracoduceus). I am still lurking on tumblr at [Classywastelandbread](https://classywastelandbread.tumblr.com/) but I'm not so active there anymore. 
> 
> ~DC


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